Sunday

The alarm clock went off at 8 am, as always, and John rubbed his eyes and thought: 1. Why didn't he ever remember to turn the damned thing off on Sundays? And 2. Was last evening a dream? A gentle hum near his ear and a hand creeping up his chest told him he wasn't dreaming after all, and John relaxed and considered how incredibly perfect had yesterday been: the surprise sex, the nice and long shower, then bed and more sex, this time slowly and more adventurous. At some point they fell asleep, and then their empty stomachs woke them up at two in the morning, and John made his promised (and forgotten) special dinner: gourmet mushroom risotto, garlic bread and apple pie. They had their late dinner sitting at the kitchen, smiling like idiots and stealing from each other's plate.

"Can we have breakfast in bed?", Sherlock whispered.

"If you wish… Let me go and I will prepare it."

Sherlock laughed and gripped him tightly. John tickled him on the ribs and at last freed himself. He kissed Sherlock again and went downstairs to the kitchen.

Sherlock's phone went off, and the detective picked it up with a sigh.

"Mycroft. How kind of you waking me up on a Sunday morning… To what do I owe the displeasure?"

"I thought you would like to get rid of this nuisance as soon as possible… but I had to check first if you or your… emm, dear flatmate had been the one who posted it on the first place. And yes, of course, silly me, good morning, Sherlock!"

"What are you talking about? What nuisance?". Sherlock got up from bed and started pacing the narrow bedroom. Talking to his brother before breakfast always made him crave for a cigarette.

"The video, of course."

"That's old news by now… We are getting used to our new fame, by the way. Have you seen the fanarts? Some of them are quite creative…"

"Old news? Have you checked Youtube today?"

Sherlock felt his throat dry and sandy all of a sudden. John's laptop was on his nightstand, looking all innocent. He opened and rebooted it.

"Wait a second."

He typed Youtube on the browser, and then, again, his own name on the search tab. A new video popped up: "Sherlock and John, the real thing" was the title. When he clicked on it, a familiar scene appeared on the screen. It wasn't a bedroom this time. It was a well known fireplace, two familiar armchairs, a window whipped by the rain… and they undressing each other and kissing in the gloom. Sherlock had a sudden crash of contradictory feelings and a chain of quick thoughts. Anger. Scream. Smashing hidden cameras. Smashing some stranger's head. Fun. Arousal. Lick John's sweat.

"Sherlock? Are you still there?", Mycroft interrupted. "I don't really think you are the one who uploaded this video, but I can't be a hundred per cent sure of Doctor Watson… Of course, if none of you have been the one, I must assume full responsibility for the actions of my team, since this has been clearly recorded by one of the security cameras installed in your flat… not for this purpose, I must reassert: it was never my intention to spy on your privacy, and this leak is the opposite to my goal, insomuch as it compromises your security…"

Sherlock hung up, smiling, put the closed laptop under his arm, took a screwdriver from a drawer and went downstairs humming Beethoven's fifth symphony.